


Sugar & Spice

by EruditExperimenter, ZeNami



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Brainwashing, Drug Use, Drugs, Gen, Horror, Kidnapping, Medical Horror, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-10 08:10:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5577990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EruditExperimenter/pseuds/EruditExperimenter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZeNami/pseuds/ZeNami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A budding re-educator, Sergio Vega is presented with the broken remnants of a person he must reassemble into a productive member of StrexCorp's work force.  But Zacharie DuBois presents challenges not just on professional, but personal fronts.  With a tender heart that needs protecting, can Zacharie truly handle what will be asked of him, even if successfully re-educated?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was a long time before Sergio could bring himself to meet with the boy face to face.  

A minor.  A Native.  A history of the government trying to tear him from his family.  Abused.  Defiled.  Made to do things no child should ever have to do.  Apprehended.  Abducted.  Re-educated.

Well.  Perhaps that was the wrong word for it.

Whatever you could classify what the previous StrexCorp operative had done to the boy, the end result was what mattered.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t one that the company could actually make use of.

It wasn’t enough to break someone through re-education - it wasn’t just tearing them down.  You had to know how to build them back up.  And, perhaps more importantly, how to do it in such a way as to preserve the skills, talents, and attributes that could be utilized by the company later.  It was a delicate sort of work; not something a scorched earth policy would do much good for.  Sergio’s usual modus operandi involved finding some defining aspect of his subject and then twisting it to his and the company’s own needs.  But in this case, that would prove to be difficult.

“He’s just...broken.  A blank slate.  Sir, I don’t know that there’s any kind of foot hold for me here, exactly.”

"Sergio you'll need to understand most every opportunity you get is another note you can put on your resume." 

Ricardo didn't seem phased by the patient in question. After so many years he'd come to be desensitized by every background and story presented to him. 

"You're still young and barely out of your studies. Each patient you take will build up that experience and prove to me you can handle any situation. This one is no different and you already said it, a blank slate. Believe me, you can't do any worse to him. We can't kick him out in the world with this mind set. Build something for him. You're an imaginative boy, creative. Better he be able to live a tale you conjure up than lay broken in the basement." 

His throat tightening, Sergio nodded, glancing sidelong at his mentor.  

_ He wouldn’t give you anything you couldn’t handle. _

Ricardo had proven remarkably astute at his estimation of the young re-educator’s skills.  There were more than a few times when Sergio had had serious doubts about what was within his ken, but thus far he’d managed on every count.  In this case, however, there was a nagging voice in his head that insisted his reticence in this case was chiefly due to personal issues.

Through a mirror darkly, eh?

And wasn’t that that part of the problem?

He saw too much of himself in the boy.  Too much of his own struggles and private tragedies.  But, then, maybe that’s why he had been assigned to this.

Nodding, exhaling at length, Sergio spared another glance to the elder.

“I do have...some ideas,” he admitted, the gears of his mind slowly beginning to turn; posture straightening and shoulders squaring.  “It’s just a matter of whether or not there’s much purchase left.”  Straightening his glasses, he pursed his lips thoughtfully.  “It’s a matter of laying down the deep structures again.  It’s no mean feat, but…”

His gaze turned once more to the two-way mirror before them and the slight figure that sat at the table in the room beyond.

“...It’s not outside of the realms of possibility.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Ricardo paced behind Sergio. He’s always a large figure behind the re educator, a small figure perched on his shoulder to convince him of these deeds. “You’re going to make something worth sharing out of this one. Don’t hesitate to push boundaries and experiment with what you have.”

He rested his hands over Sergio’s shoulder from behind. Though they both faced the two-way mirror, Ricardo’s attention was solely on his protege. He could have cared less what happened to this client. A patient’s a patient’s a patient. He was more interested in the opportunity this particular client brought up; the background and situation a bonus.

Who knew what Sergio’s final product would bring up.

“You have all the material you need- don’t think so negatively about this. Look at him Sergio. That poor boy wants a life but he can barely reach for it. Be the hand that helps guide him. Nurture him and help him learn to walk on his own.” The CEO chuckled. “He’ll thank you for it in due time.”

Nodding, Sergio’s gaze when distant, his thoughts already working on prying apart and putting together the puzzle person before him.

“I’m certain he will, sir.  Thank you.  This will be a unique opportunity.”

The observation room was like any of the others in the facility - clean, impersonal, smelling faintly of citrus.  Situated at a table in the room’s center, Zacharie was facing the door when Sergio stepped inside, smiling to his newest subject amicably.

“Hello, Zacharie.  My name is Sergio.  Pleased to meet you.”

The only response from the youth was a lift of his head, silence following but for the soft sound of drawn breath, and split fingernails scratching the surface of the table.

He was so small, and so weak; slight enough to be swept up on a strong enough wind. There was a disturbing vacancy to the boy's eyes, as if he had passed total exhaustion and lost all awareness of waking or sleeping--stormy blues devoid of emotion or intent, glassy and distant. As if the mind behind them had been stripped of meaning and content and thought.

He looked at Sergio as if not really seeing him; a sound, words strung together that made sense, a face with an expression, but... far away, somehow. He didn't even seem to have the inclination to flinch, and, of course, the wheelchair was obvious indication that he wasn't going anywhere.

Zacharie stared, but said nothing, fingertips curling slowly into his palm.

“We’re going to be working together,” Sergio continued, taking Zacharie’s hand delicately and giving it a friendly shake.  “I heard your initial re-education didn’t work out as expected, so I’m here to see what I can do about setting you on the right track.”

Laying his hand on the table, the young re-educator raised a brow, giving the other a half smile.

“I hear you’re  Métis.  Iroquois on your mother’s side, yes?  I’m Coeur d’Alene on my father’s side, as it happens.”

Looking into Zacharie’s eyes, he leaned forward a little.

“I know you’re in there someplace, Zacharie.  You’re hiding now, and I understand that.  You found someplace inside of you that was safe to go.  You don’t want to come out again until you know it’s safe out here, too.  I can tell you that I have no intention of harming you.  You’ve been torn apart and I’m sorry that happened.  But I’m here to build you back up again.”

There was no return grip when Sergio shook the youth's hand; Zacharie continued to stare passively, locked in the quiet halls of his own head where the noise couldn't find him and buzz in his ears and make him scratch trying to get away from it. The faded red nail marks in his arms were indication enough of that.

But there was a faint sign of recognition when he heard a word he hadn't heard in a long, long while.  _ Métis _ .

He had been torn apart--he barely knew who he was anymore. He was weak, numb, and exhausted. But this man didn't wear surgical gloves and he spoke where his face could be seen... a face that carried shades of familiarity. Someone with similar heritage. The first person Zacharie had seen that gave him any sense of reassurance.

He nodded, very subtly, making true eye contact.

“Do you think we can work together, Zacharie?  I believe we can.  I won’t pretend I went through what you did.  It’s your story - not mine.  But it might be a good place from where to start.  I have stories of my own.”

Sitting back, he brightened at the other’s eye contact.

“I love them.  Did you ever hear stories growing up?  The important ones?  The ones about the People?  You always get Greek mythology in school and it’s not even the most interesting variety.  I always found it irritating that Greek mythology was part of core curriculum and everything else was an elective.”

His eyes drifting upward, a dreamy little smile on his face, the re-educator continued.

“My favorites were the Raven stories.  Did you ever hear those?  The best one was about how he stole the sun.”

What he had gone through... what had he gone through, again? He could barely remember why he was here. He remembered a lot of pain, and being very scared, and fighting for his life... but before that... he had a mother, like this man had said. Where was she? Was she dead? Why wasn't he home? Why had he left...?

Absently, the youth splayed his frail fingers on the surface of the table. His eyes wandered away from Sergio’s face, and, childishly, he started to trace shapes on the plane beneath his prints. A circle, and soft rays all around…  _ Sun. _

Pale blues lifted again, questioning, but this time to the white ceiling; unimpeded by the bright fluorescents overhead. His pupils shrank to pinpoints. When was the last time he’d seen the sun…?

Sergio watched Zach tracing the shape and nodded slowly.  “That’s right,” he murmured.  Reaching out, he took the boy’s hand and began to guide it; tracing the shape of a bird near where Zach had, ’drawn,’ his sun.  “There was a time when there was no sun in this world.  Everything was darkness and the people toiled without the benefit of the light.  It was a terrible time.  Raven, taking pity on the people, knew that beyond the darkness of Earth, the people of the Sky lived and kept with them a marvelous treasure locked away - the Sun.”

As he spoke, Sergio traced a circular shape.

“He knew that if he could only get the Sun away from the people of the Sky, he could help those on Earth.”

Once again, the chair-bound youth’s eyes drifted down from the brightness overhead, to Sergio’s face, and then belatedly to his own hand; he watched the way he guided his fingers across the table. He made no motion to resist, his wrist loose. His fingernails, still caked underneath with dried blood, scraped at the surface as he seemed to want to close them around the ‘image’ of the sun; to grab hold of the light.

Sergio watched Zacharie carefully, smiling a bit as his fingers began to move of their own accord.

“That’s right,” he cooed.  “Take the Sun.  Well, Raven, knew he could never match the power of the people of the Sun - they were strong and had many powerful warriors he could never hope to battle.  But this was no trouble to Raven, for he was a trickster.  And so it was that he went into the realm of the people of the Sky and began to fly to and fro, trying to think up a way to snatch the treasure from them.  It was during this time that he caught sight of the daughter of the Chief of the people of the Sky.  She was kneeling beside a river and bringing a bowl to her mouth to drink of it.  Quick as a wink, Raven transformed himself into a tiny pine frond and fell into the bowl of water.  The Chief’s daughter drank him down without ever knowing.”

As he spoke, Sergio moved Zacharie’s fingertip into the shapes of which he spoke - the sun, the curve of the sky, the shape of a bird, the flow of the river.

Zacharie swallowed reflexively; his eyes were intent, now, following the motions of the story the re-educator was carrying him through. It was hard to hold it all together in one place--his head felt like a bowl full of cracks and fissures, thoughts slipping through like the water of the river--but he tried.

“So it came to be that the daughter of the Sky Chief found herself great with child.  It was a mystery, but the people of the Sky considered it a blessing.  When at last the child came forth, they found that he had a great, beak-like nose.  When the Medicine Man saw the child, he warned the people of the Sky against him.  He told them the child would only bring them woe and misfortune.  But the Chief and his daughter so loved the baby, that they kept him close and refused to send him away.

“Of course, it was Raven disguised as the child, and now that he was in the home of the people of the Sky, he could search for where they had hidden away their treasure.  He was the joy of the Sky Chief, who would take him everywhere.  One day, Raven was taken to the room in which the Sky Chief kept his peoples’ treasures.  Upon entering, he caught sight of a woven basket that glowed brightly.  Immediately, he reached for it and began to cry.

“The Sky Chief smiled and said, ‘That is the Sun.  It is our most precious treasure and while you may look at it, you may not touch it.’

“Of course, Raven knew that he must have this treasure.  And so, he began to cry all the louder.  He cried for so loud and for so long that, at last, the Sky Chief relented and allowed Raven to touch the woven basket that held the Sun.

“Can you imagine the trouble that would happen next?”

_ The sun. The sun. I want the sun! _

There was a delicate tremor in Zacharie’s hands; his grey-blue eyes were masked with moisture, gleaming with unshed tears, as if he couldn’t control his empathy for the bird in the story. Crying and crying for want of something… the light, wasn’t it? He opened his mouth as if he wanted to speak, but not a sound came out. He only managed a tired, pleading expression.  _ Tell me… _

“Well, no sooner had the Sky Chief placed the Sun in Raven’s hands then Raven laughed his trickster’s laugh and shook his head.  His arms became wings, his feet became claws, and he grinned as he took the sun into his beak.

“‘Thank you for this gift!’ he said.  ‘I think it is time the people of Earth had their turn in the light!’

“And with that, Raven flew away back to the realm of Earth.  He soared over the people and called out to them.

“‘I have a marvelous gift!’ he said.  ‘It is called the Sun and with it, you will never have to be in darkness again!  I will give it to you, but you must first give me a salmon for I am hungry after all the work I have had to do to bring you such a splendid treasure!’

“But do you know?  The people of the Earth shunned this gift.  ‘We do not need the Sun!’ they said.  ‘We are fine living in darkness.  Go away you greedy Raven - we will not share our salmon with you!  This is likely just some trick, anyway, so that you can get a free meal!’

“And did Raven like that?  Oh, not a bit.  He was furious.  He was ready to throw the Sun away so that no one could ever use it again when he heard the voice of a girl calling out to him.

“‘Here, Raven!’ she said.  ‘I have a salmon for you!  Give me the Sun!’

“The girl tossed the salmon into the air and as Raven caught it, he dropped the Sun into the girl’s hands!  As he flew away, the girl began to unwrap the basket the Sun had been kept in.  Soon it was free, brilliant and golden, and the girl gave it a gentle nudge to help it climb up into the sky to shine down on everyone.  So it was that Raven went into the realm of the Sky People and brought us back the Sun.  Not through brute force, but through cunning.”

_ And was that so much to ask?  _ whispered a voice in the back of Zacharie’s head; maybe they were his own thoughts. Maybe not. He wasn’t certain anymore. _ The sun for a fish. Gold and secrets for bread on the table. Poor thing; someone’s gone and clipped your wings. _

He was crying. The tears were slow and silent, but finally a sound made it past his cracked and dry lips; a soft whimper, weighed down by exhaustion, both mental and physical. He looked up at the fluorescent light again, but it wasn’t right. It was a glaring lie. How long? How long? He ached, and he was afraid. He felt so small; so fragile. He couldn’t remember how to make words; it was as if his throat wouldn’t listen to his head.

He drew the sun on the table again, and grabbed at it. Again. Grabbed at it.  _ Again _ . He was shaking, his curled fingers rigid with desperation.  _ Please. Please…! _

“Do you want to see the sun?” Sergio whispered, leaning in close to let his words tickle against Zacharie’s ear.  “Shall I take you there?”

Zacharie’s eyes were wide open and wet, staring ahead. It was all he could do just to nod.

Sergio smiled in return and got to his feet.  “Let’s go then.”

Circling behind Zacharie, Sergio took hold of the wheelchair’s handles and began to push it out of the room they were in.  Soon, the young man found himself being wheeled down the long, featureless, and winding corridors of the facility inhabited by anonymous employees.  Before long, however, they were heading toward a door at the end of hallway that was different from the others.  Instead of a featureless white, this door was made of glass and wrought iron, and warm, golden light streamed through it.

Parking the chair for a moment, Sergio circled back around to open the door; a cloud of warm, green-smelling air breathing out to envelope the pair.  Turning back, still smiling, he guided Zacharie into the room beyond.

The floor was lined with potted plants, the air perfumed with the scent of a hundred flowers.  A fountain burbled away somewhere unseen, and hanging glass orbs caught and scattered the sunlight that flooded in through the windows walls and ceiling.

The sun touched his face, and Zacharie’s hands tightened on the arms of the chair, gazing up as if he had never seen anything so beautiful.

The rest of it seemed to come in a rush, like the tide sweeping in. All at once there was green around him; he heard running water, and the air smelled sweet instead of sterile, and the intense stimulation after uncountable time isolated in white nothingness was enough to make him cry out in surprise. He nearly forgot he wasn’t alone, so utterly absorbed into it as he was, gasping in a breath of air heavy with floral notes and humidity he hadn’t felt in what felt like ages.

He couldn’t stop the tears after that. Overwhelmed, he sobbed, reaching up, trying to grasp sunlight that danced through his fingers like liquid gold.

“It’s alright, Zacharie.”

The re-educator caught Zacharie’s hands gently, giving them a reassuring squeeze.  He knelt at his side, touching the boy’s cheek.

“Everything will be alright.  I’m going to make sure of it.  You and I are going to work together and make you whole again.  You are my cousin.  I would not leave you shattered.  Do you want me to help you, Zacharie?  Do you want to work together?”

_ Help… Help…? _

Zacharie struggled to focus on the face in front of him; the colours of the room blurred together, and nothing was unyielding and white anymore. Nothing was cold and flat. The hand on his face was warm, and suddenly, in this light, this man didn’t look like a doctor or a scientist. He didn’t look like a cold gear in the machine that had broken him. He was… a cousin. Maybe a friend. Zacharie had no idea who he was… he couldn’t even remember the man’s name right now. But he was offering help, and he was kind, and gentle…

Tears streaming down both cheeks, he squeezed the hand he was still holding, his own so small and brittle against it--and he nodded, quivering, suddenly afraid to let go.

“Good.  We’ll begin soon.  You have a tender heart within, I think.  I’m going to give you a way to protect it.  For now, Zacharie, relax and recover.  The sweet and the sharp each have their place in turn.  You have had your fill of the latter.  Taste the former for a while.  Pleasure and pain.  Warmth and cold.  Sugar and spice.  All things in their time.”

_ Pleasure and pain… _

_ Warmth and cold… _

_ Sugar and Spice. _

Zacharie closed his eyes, feeling the sun on his skin; without much thought at all, he held himself, as if to shield whatever was left inside. Small, tender and gentle… defended by something furious and wild that still seemed to be crawling under the surface. For now, he shied from it, frightened. All things in time.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery seldom comes easily, and the case of Zacharie DuBois is no exception. As he continues his re-education with Sergio, being built up from the wreckage of his former identity, Zacharie begins to learn how to keep himself safe while being strong enough to face the world outside of himself.

“Which one of these belongs to Spice?”

Sergio watched Zacharie from the opposite side of a table.  Between them laid two objects - a hand mirror and a two-way radio.  His expression was impassive as he observed his subject, waiting still and patient for the younger man to reach for one item or the other.  

The youth’s fingers curled against the surface of the table.

It took him a full few moments to parse the question; even then, the answer was uncertain to him.  _ Sugar. Spice. Sugar. Spice. Everything nice. That’s what you’re made of… right…? But Spice bites and stings… don’t you? Didn’t you? _

Very cautiously, as if afraid to be wrong, he reached for the two-way radio, his fingertips touching the hard, plastic edge. It was cold, but solid under his prints. His grey-blue eyes flickered upward, seeking confirmation from the man across the table.

Sergio smiled to Zacharie, nodding.  “That’s right, Zach.  That belongs to Spice.  You’re getting much better.”

It had been challenging to get the concept to stick with Zacharie, but it appeared to be gaining traction.  The boy wasn’t yet verbal, although he had demonstrated some capacity at comprehension and limited expression of needs and desires.  It wasn’t much, but it was something to work off of.

And it could help get Zacharie to where he needed to be so they could further his treatment.

After four weeks, the young man’s self awareness had appeared to increase.  It was something Sergio had seized upon eagerly - he needed it to help build up what would become the necessary defenses for his subject to even exist in a world outside of the melange of emotions and impulses that made up his world.  He needed to be able to recognize and reach out to the world outside of him, and that was a tall order, indeed.

“I’m proud of the progress you’ve made.”

Progress… was this progress?

Zacharie wasn’t sure if it was progress, but… well, since Sergio--he remembered his name, now--had moved him into a nice, comfortable room, draped in soft rose and mint with desert sun in the window, he’d been feeling… well… more. Before, he had felt nothing at all, and now he wasn’t sure what he felt. That, he supposed, was progress. Everything felt so muddy.

The youth twisted the fabric of the loose cotton sleeping pants he wore, nails digging into his skin, though he couldn’t feel it at all.

He watched Sergio in silence; at least his eyes were somewhat focused, now. They sank to the hand that touched the radio, rubbing the plastic. It was cold. It had hard edges. It made him uneasy; it reminded him of something harsh, something violent, something  _ bloody-- _

With an abrupt sweep of his hand, Zacharie pushed the radio off the table. It clattered to the floor noisily, and the youth jolted in his seat, staring after it, eyes wide with apprehension.

He shook his head, a tiny, timid motion.

Sergio raised a brow at the action, his gaze following the object as it fell before meeting Zacharie’s eyes again.

“Zacharie,” he said evenly, “is something the matter?  Do you not like the radio?”

Zacharie shook his head more insistently. He was leaning away from the object on the floor, pressed into the opposite side of his chair; his arms came to hold his torso in a mild but definite defense. He seemed to be struggling to speak again, swallowing and biting his bottom lip, which was cracked and red from the constant worry of his teeth. Why couldn’t he make his tongue listen? It felt like lead in his mouth, big and heavy and cumbersome.

“Why don’t you like the radio, Zach?”

Getting up from his seat, Sergio knelt beside the radio, picking it up and inspecting it as if looking for some defect or offensive portion.  Getting to his feet, he came to the tableside and picked up the hand mirror, holding the two of them out for Zacharie to examine.

“Is the hand mirror better than the radio?”

Again, Zacharie flinched away from the radio. He focused his attention on the hand-mirror, then, touching the smooth surface; with a gentle tug, he turned it to look at it, seeing his own face in the reflection. He barely seemed to recognize it, though, looking away in disinterest, as if he couldn’t stay focused on one singular thing.

He bit his lip. He swallowed. The words came, but they were practically unbidden--as if he didn’t really know he was speaking and not just thinking.

“It… comes from a bad place,” he said, at last. His voice was so weak, and so soft… so dry from lack of use. “Bad… frightening… places… people.  _ J’pas envie… d--... ‘ya du sang, et… _ ” He stumbled into his first language, shaking his head in confusion as stringing words together became incomprehensibly difficult.

Sergio nodded slowly.

“I see.  Well, Zacharie, I think that we need to talk a little about that.”

Within, the re-educator thrilled at the words - broken as they were.  He was verbalizing.  That was progress.  Any other time, the boy might have simply made a vocalization of some sort followed with a gesture.  Without, Sergio maintained a calm veneer.

“You can’t be defenseless, Zach.  I can’t let you out of here knowing how easily you might be hurt without me to be there at your side.  You understand that, don’t you?  I care about you and the last thing I want is to see you hurting.”

_ Is this hurting? Am I hurting…? _

Zacharie felt like he was hurting. Not physically, but… Over the past few weeks, he had grown gradually more aware of himself, for certain. That meant, however, that he was becoming increasingly aware of his situation, too. Nothing beyond his immediate surroundings, to be clear--but that his legs didn’t work, that he was cold, numb, and alone… except for Sergio. Sergio was  _ always  _ there.

Sergio cared. He said that he cared. What else did he have to go on? He couldn’t even feel his own heart beating. He couldn’t tell one emotion from the next. He couldn’t even scratch his own skin without feeling left outside of it. A spectator, watching his own life. If you could call it,  _ life _ .

So he nodded, but it was coupled with a confused expression--one seeking answers from his present caretaker.

“The bad things… make… the hurt…”

“The hurt is bad,” Sergio agreed, “but this in and of itself is not pain.”  

He held up the radio for Zacharie.

“This, in fact, can help to keep you from pain.  Do you remember what I told you about sugar and spice?  They are not opposites - they are complementary.  Sugar and Spice are the same.  They are not there to hurt one another.  They are there to help one another.”

He placed both items back onto the table and guided Zacharie’s hands until they were resting atop them.

“You are not one or the other - you are both.  Perhaps you are more one than the other at any given time, but that is fine.  You are sweetly sharp and sharply sweet.  The sweetness is sweeter because of the sting.  These both belong to you, Zacharie, but they also belong to Sugar and Spice, respectively.  Do you understand?”

_ Sugar, and Spice, and everything… Everything… Sharp sugar, sweet spice… Everything nice… sweet, bitter… salt and sugar… _ Zacharie’s thoughts spun like cotton candy, round and round in a haze of sweet rose made up of tiny, sharp edges. It was so hard to stay focused, so difficult to comprehend, but…

“... Both mine…?” The question came soft, barely above a whisper, as he closed his hands on each object; the more he thought about it, the more he realized he  _ liked  _ each object, for different reasons. Two halves of his mind pulled apart from each other like saltwater taffy--separate, but alike, composed of the same sugar and salt but connected, forever. If the sharp was his as well as the sweet… did that mean he could control it?

Something in him seemed to calm down at the thought. His shoulders relaxed, eyes dull, a soft breath passing his lips as he pulled the objects a little closer over the table.

“Both yours,” Sergio assured him.  He watched the boy’s grip tighten about the objects and smiled.  “Both need each other.  Can you see them, Zacharie?  Sugar, who is everything sweet and light within you.  Spice who is everything sharp and dark.  One can’t exist without the other.  They both protect each other, but in different ways.  Can you see what they look like?  Can you tell me?”

Zacharie’s eyes flickered; he swallowed, worrying his lower lip, silent for a long moment. He wasn't certain who  _ he _ was anymore, really… but these… people. Sugar and Spice. He could connect  _ them _ to their belongings. Everything that had passed under his hands, that Sergio had had him sort--the bullet casing and the lipstick, the leather pouch and the pincushion, the black licorice and the strawberry candy… he knew the faces those things belonged to.

“Paper,” he requested, fingernails scraping at the table. “Draw…”

“Just a moment.”

It wasn’t easy to contain his excitement, but Sergio managed to maintain his outward calm as he reached into a drawer beneath the table and pulled out a pencil and paper for Zacharie.  

“I had heard that you’re a good artist,” the re-educator said with a smile.  “I’d like to see what Sugar and Spice look like.”

Zacharie put the eraser end of the pencil in his mouth, gnawing on the thin metal ring; he didn't know why he did it, but it gave under his teeth and seemed to soothe him. Slowly, he brought the graphite tip to the paper under his hands, and began to draw.

His lines weren't very steady, guided by frail hands that always seemed to shake whenever he tried to accomplish any fine motor movements--but his experience with sketching still showed, the motions subconscious. He drew two slender figures, side by side, and began to dress them like paper dolls. On the left figure, he sketched a dress with a sweetheart neckline, a necklace of pearls, polka dot skirts that stopped at the knee and gave way to short heels; a handbag over the elbow, and a curly feminine coif. On the right figure, he filled in form-fitting pants, boots, and a dark suit jacket; a slicked-back masculine hairstyle with a few loose curls. His hand shook fiercely as he drew a knife, long and sharp, in the right figure’s hand. 

He dropped the pencil then, swallowing and lip-biting, pushing the paper toward Sergio. Neither figure had a face.

Sergio took the paper carefully, lifting it from the table to examine the two figures Zacharie had created.  A fierce, almost predatory sort of triumph took hold of him.

_ Yes. _

“I see.  Now, to make sure I have this right,” he said, laying a fingertip upon the figure in the dress, “this is Sugar.  And this,” he continued, tapping the figure in the suit, “is Spice?”

Wide-eyed, Zacharie nodded, looking at the drawings and then down to his lap, twisting the cotton fabric with both hands.

“Good.  Now, do you see,” he said, reaching out to gently nudge Zacharie’s chin upward and direct his gaze back to the drawing, “how Spice is so strong?  So sharp and dangerous?  Do you see how Sugar is so tender?  So sweet and loving?  Can you see where Sugar could be vulnerable to the things in the world that cause hurt?  Now, Spice might use those things, but he is not, in and of himself, painful.  Spice keeps Sugar safe.  Spice is here when things are not manageable for Sugar.  Do you understand?”

_ Spice keeps Sugar safe. _

_ You want to be safe, don't you? _

Zacharie nodded once more. He understood. He wanted to be safe… and to be safe, he would have to trust Spice. Spice was part of him, too, but everything sharp and vicious, turned outward. Spice was dangerous, but would never hurt Sugar… oh, no. They needed each other. Together, they were complete.

Somewhere inside, Zacharie felt himself disconnect from everything sharp and vicious, turning it outward.  _ When things are hard. When things are frightening. When things are not manageable for Sugar... _

His blue eyes were hazy, staring up at Sergio but not really looking at him.

_ Spice keeps Sugar safe. _

Placing a hand over Zacharie’s, Sergio met the youth’s unseeing eyes and spoke in a low, mellifluous tone.  “There is a home inside of you - a house where Sugar and Spice live.  It is as small as your body and as big as your thoughts.  Everything they are is inside of that house.  Can you see them there?  Can you tell me what the house looks like?  Can you show me?”

Zacharie’s lips parted, releasing a wavering sigh; this time, though, he didn't pick up the pencil. As if reciting something from a distant memory, or perhaps a wistful dream, he spoke softly, his thin voice layered with the soft rasp of his breath.

“I wanted a house with a yellow door… flowers in the windows… and a green yard… With a tall, strong fence.  _ Ouai _ ... There’s a big kitchen with an island, and a bedroom with a heavy oak bed, and... soft quilts with sweet roses…”

“Build it inside of you,” Sergio instructed.  “Make it with your mind.  This is where they live.  This is where you live.  Sugar and Spice.  The sweet and the sharp.  The vulnerable and the victorious.  Let it be your safe and sacred place.  Think of it often.  Give it more detail each time.  Let it deepen and solidify within you.  Can you take me through your house, Zach?  Can you guide me to the different rooms?  I want to see them, if I may.”

This is where you live. Not just under the skin of this frail, broken body, but deeper. There are strong walls and gossamer curtains that shield you, somewhere inside.

It was the first time he’d been able to focus on anything--but he’d thought about it so much in his short life that it was ingrained, an essential part of his memory. This house that never was, that only existed in his dreams. Could he really retreat to it…?

He began slowly, describing the house as if he were walking through it; his voice was soft, barely above a whisper, but he kept speaking, hands curled tightly in his lap. His eyes closed. He told Sergio of hallways in dusty rose, the embroidered cushions on a plush white sofa; pretty woven rugs inspired by the arrowed sashes of the Métis people he came from. Bright windows, pale mint and citrus in the kitchen, the smell of vanilla and almond. A staircase lined with picture frames, a safe and secure bedroom with a bed piled high in quilts and pillows, plush to sink into. A vanity with a round mirror, covered from corner to corner with cosmetics in every palette, a closet full of sweet, soft dresses alongside smart suit jackets and comfortable button-downs and everything in between…

Sergio listened to it all with rapt attention, watching Zacharie as he spun his dreams; building castles in the air.  Or, sweet, domestic suburbs.  It would be useful later.  

“That sounds beautiful, Zacharie.  That sounds so perfect for Sugar and Spice.  I want you to think about that place and I want you to think about Sugar and Spice living there.  Think about the rooms that would belong to each of them; their favorite places.  You don’t have to tell me about them now - but think about it.  Consider who they are and why they’re there.”

He squeezed Zacharie’s hands.

“You’re doing well, Zach.  You’re doing better every day.  Thank you for working so hard on this.  I know it isn’t easy.”

There were tears welling in Zacharie’s eyes--it was nothing unusual. He still had trouble controlling his emotional responses, and it only seemed to get harder when he was tired. He could do it, though, he thought. He could think about the house. It was a lot easier to think about the house rather than anything else; it would fill the frightening silence in his head.

He nodded passively, and, feeling like he’d worn his voice to its limit, he touched his fingertips to his lips--the gesture which, in the past couple of weeks, had come to mean  _ hungry _ .

“Let’s get something to eat, then,” Sergio said with a grin.  “Something with strawberries, perhaps?”

Of anything offered to him, the young man appeared to respond most strongly to sweet things; especially ones that included fruit and cream somewhere in the mix.

At the mention of strawberries, Zacharie’s eyes lifted. He didn’t smile--he never smiled--but there was an interest in his expression, the tip of a pink tongue slipping along the edge of his reddened and cracked lower lip.

“I thought you might like that.  Cream scones, strawberry jam, and lemon curd with some mint tea might be just the thing.  Shall we eat here or in the sun room?”

“In the light,” Zacharie answered, his tiny voice still barely audible with his head turned down.

“The sunroom it is.”

Sergio took a moment to type out an order to the kitchens before circling around behind Zacharie and starting off toward the sunroom.  So far it had been Zacharie’s favorite place in the facilities - and Sergio understood completely.  Living in the desert, he, too, longed for greener places; refuges from the glittering vastness of the sand.  There was beauty there, certainly, but his heart remembered the lush depths of his home and craved them fiercely.  

“I’ve wanted to ask you, Zacharie, about when you’d like to have the surgery for your back.  We have ways of restoring what was taken from you, but before now you’ve been unable to express when and how you would care to have this done.  You’re regaining your strength at an admirable pace, and I think we’ll have you in a position to be ready for the procedure in short order.”

Restoring what was taken…?

Oh, right. His back… his legs. He couldn’t feel them anymore, so he didn’t think of them very often. There was no pain… just a dead weight below his waist that kept him in this chair. It meant he had become very much used to being dressed by others, being moved by others… it was the only life he really remembered now. Everything before felt like it was blanketed in a lead fog. He could try to think back, but all that awaited him were flashes of pain, blood, silence, and void… a terrible, white void that frightened him and made him ache for colour.

His grey-blue eyes flicked to the right, looking at Sergio sidelong with a turn of his head as he pushed the chair along. He was confused.  _ When is the surgery? Did we talk about a surgery before…? I don’t remember… Shouldn’t I remember? I don’t remember very much anymore, though… maybe I forgot… _

He was silent for a long moment, nervously twisting his hands together. His nails bit gently into his palms in an effort to hold onto his focus, but it was so hard.

_ No, I must have forgotten… I must have said yes and then I forgot… _

“...  _ J-- _ ...  _ J’sais pas _ ,” he murmured at last--helpless, lost. “I don’t know--I don’t remember. I’m sorry. My legs… could I walk before…? I don’t… I don’t remember…”

_ Surgery. Surgery… under the knife. Back in the white. Are you sure? Are you sure? _

He shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut.

_ When things are unmanageable for Sugar-- _ _   
_

_ Spice keeps Sugar safe-- _

_ Spice. Spice. Sweet and sharp-- _

Zacharie’s breath hitched, his vision blaring white for a moment, a high ringing in his ears. Reflexively, he reached back for Sergio’s hand on the handle of the wheelchair, grabbing and gripping his shirt cuff.

As Zacharie’s hand closed around Sergio’s shirt cuff, he stopped in their path toward the sunroom.

“Are you alright, Zacharie?  You did walk at one time.  It was not so long ago, but perhaps it feels that way.  It was never meant for you to be injured as you were, and we will make it better.  You need only tell us when.”

Zacharie held onto Sergio’s sleeve for a long moment, trying to feel steady again. Even sitting, he felt his head spin as if he had lost his balance.

_ That’s right. I got hurt. Why? How…? … It doesn’t matter. _

“ _...Ouai _ ,” he managed at length, and then, struggling to move the weight of his tongue, he added, “I need to… think about… when.”

Sergio nodded slowly, waiting for Zacharie’s grip to relax before continuing toward the sunroom.  As he continued, he smiled; a profound sense of satisfaction welling up within him.

_ That’s more like it. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all well and good to try and make a subject more manageable, but Sergio's plans may have unintended consequences both for him and Zacharie.

“I would feel much more comfortable if you would get that knife away from my throat,” Sergio said lowly.

He didn’t break eye contact with the young man who had the weapon pressed lightly against his Adam’s apple.  In spite of everything - Zacharie sprawled halfway across the table ready to open his throat and glaring daggers at him - the re-educator was pleased.  

_ There you are _ .

It must have said something of the wild energy in Zacharie that--despite having to haul himself across the table with his arms--he had managed to grab the knife from the table and get it up against Sergio’s throat  _ without _ the use of his legs, in a blur of motion that was reminiscent of a snake lunging for a bite. The blade didn't bite into skin yet, though. The youth’s eyes were wide, and the fear was gone from them; something cold and sharp and calculated had taken its place.

He was still except for his short breathing, the labour of it pushing his chest into the table. A faint tremor ran down his arm, but he did not look away, ice blue eyes locked onto Sergio’s dark and calm stare. Every line of his body that was capable of tensing had gone taut.

And yet, he seemed suddenly lost; as if he had only just woken up, and the entire motion had been one violent reflex.

_ What now? _

“Hello, Spice,” Sergio said with a smile.  “Truly, I  _ would  _ appreciate if you would take that knife away, but if you would prefer a conversation like this, I suppose I could accommodate.”

Folding his hands atop the table, Sergio’s brows raised and he offered Zacharie a sheepish smile.

“I suppose it was foolish of me to put an actual weapon on the table for you to select.  I confess I’ve underestimated your progress.”

_ Spice. _

_ Yes, that's who I am. _

Zacharie was still a moment longer, except for his eyes… they darted downward to the knife and back to Sergio’s face, as if assessing the situation. The other object on the table--a bright yellow hair ribbon--lay forgotten. His expression was different than before. Instead of a dull glaze, his eyes were sharp and focused, in defiance of their sunken exhaustion.

“Is this what you wanted?”

The words came unbidden; Zacharie wasn't even sure why he said them. Still, he kept the knife where it was. All he felt was unrest--tension, paranoia, anger. Not fear… no, not fear.

“Yes and no.  I’m glad to meet  _ you _ , Spice, but rather less than thrilled about our present situation.”

Taking a deep breath through his nose and then exhaling at length, Sergio’s gaze shifted to the vivid yellow ribbon, then to Zacharie’s trembling arm before finally meeting the boy’s eyes again.

“How are  _ you _ feeling?”

The question caught him off-guard.

It wasn't until he was asked that Zacharie realized he  _ was _ feeling. Feeling anything at all. He had been numb for so long… his breath hitched, and he looked down at his white-knuckled hand. Why had he lunged for the knife? Why had he attacked the first person he'd laid eyes on? And why did he feel so… so…

“Angry,” he murmured, still staring at the blade against Sergio’s throat. It was so still, it had become obvious that he had no intention of hurting him--just keeping him still while he tried to sort this out. No distractions. No threats.

“Angry… but I don't remember why.”

Sergio nodded as much as the knife at his throat would allow for.

“There is a good deal we don’t know,” he admitted.  “And why you may be angry is one of those things.  I’ve been trying to help you, and it looks as if our work together is finally bearing fruit.  You’re talking.  You’re feeling.  That’s good.

“Can you tell me what made you come out, Spice?  Was it something I said or did?  Was it the knife?”

“What made me… come out…?”

Yes… that was right. He'd been hiding. Somewhere deep inside himself… but something had been growing. Something strong that could face what had frightened him into the quiet and dark. Something sweet and sharp. And the first thing he had wanted was…

_ A weapon _ .

“The knife,” he mumbled, looking at the way the warm lamplight gleamed off the sharp edge. “I have to protect…”

_ Protect what? Protect who? _

“I see.  Is there something I could do to convince you to put the knife down?  That you don’t need to use that on me?”

Zacharie paused. His wrist had started to tremble.

“Don't move,” he answered, eyes locked on Sergio’s. “Don't.” Very slowly, he drew the knife away. “Keep your hands… where I can see them.”

Nodding again, Sergio did as he was instructed, his hands folded neatly upon the tabletop.  

“I understand.  You just wanted to protect Sugar.  That’s good.  They need your protection.”

_ Protect Sugar _ .

That seemed to give Zacharie a sense of clarity. He relaxed minutely, fixing the man in the suit with a judging stare.

“From you?”

“No,” Sergio assured him.  “But the outside world isn’t as understanding as I am.  They may not always want things to turn out for your best interests.  I’m your friend, Zacharie.  Honestly, I’m probably the only friend you have right now, and I’ve been working very hard to make you well again.  You were not doing well when we started working together.  Your recovery has been nothing short of remarkable.”

Zacharie held his eyes for a long moment.

He nodded, then, seeming to accept that. After all, wasn't it true? He didn't remember anyone else’s name or face… he knew Sergio’s hands as the ones that fed him and guided him. He didn't remember clearly how he had been before--it felt like an empty blur--but he  _ felt _ now… even if it was just… anger, and apprehension.

“...How do I  _ know _ that you're my friend?”

“Zacharie, look at me.”

He slowly moved his hands to turn his palms upward and nodded to the boy’s reflection in the observation window.

“Look at yourself.”

Zacharie’s eyes flickered from Sergio’s face to the one-way mirror; it had never occurred to him until now that it  _ was _ a one-way mirror. But he didn't care. He saw himself, sprawled across the table, his legs a deadweight behind him. He hadn't looked at himself in a very long time.

He saw his sunken eyes, grey-blue and cold--he saw cracked lips and the mess of curls that defied propriety. But more importantly, he saw who he  _ was _ , and the people he'd come from, and he saw that Sergio was the same.

He  _ remembered _ that they were the same.

All at once, he felt himself overwhelmed. He dropped the knife, a dry sob passing his lips, sad, and frustrated, and lost.

“I'm so confused,” he said, voice wavering. He put his head down on his arm, suddenly aching in the temples. “I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know. I can't remember. Please. I don't know…”

Slowly, Sergio turned his hands over once more, and moved them across the top of the table, allowing Zacharie to listen to their movement.  He ran his fingertips slowly up Zacharie’s folded arms until he touched the boy’s temples; rubbing them in slow, soothing circles.

“I know it’s very frightening right now.  There’s a lot you’re uncertain about - both in your past and for your future.  But I want to tell you that I’m going to take care of you, Zacharie.  I told you when this began and I’m telling you now - you’re my cousin.  I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.  I’m going to make sure you have the tools you need to protect yourself.  That’s why there is a Sugar and a Spice.  Do you remember anything from our sessions together?”

Zacharie lifted his head; his eyes gleamed with unshed tears, but he refused to let them fall. He couldn't cry. He needed to be stronger than that.

_ For Sugar _ .

He looked sidelong at the ribbon on the table; it was bright, and sunny, and reminded him of the light he craved to see. Of the gentle heart inside that he could not feel, but that he knew was there. He nodded.

“I remember.”

Arms shaking from the effort, he pushed himself up, sitting on the table itself and pulling his unresponsive legs up underneath him. He touched the knife again, fingertips against the cold steel as he drew in and let out a slow, wavering breath.

“Sweet and sharp...”

“That’s right,” Sergio murmured.  “Sugar and Spice.”

He reached up to lay a hand upon the one Zacharie was using to touch the knife.  

“You know about Sugar.  Does Sugar know about you?”

Zacharie was silent for a moment, and then shook his head, eyes closed.

“No.”

Nodding, the re-educator hummed thoughtfully.

“You’re trying to keep him safe from all of this, I take it?  Take the brunt of what the world has to throw at you?”

He paused, watching the young man.

“If I asked you, would you be able to tell me what Sugar is like?”

Zacharie nodded this time--a subtle motion. Yes, he wanted to keep Sugar safe from this… from the stress, the confusion, the fear. He could shoulder it all. He was the one who was made to hold the knife. He was the one that remembered how. He understood that now.

“Sugar is… everything Spice is not,” he said steadily, keeping his eyes closed, as if looking inside himself. It was easy to do that and feel calm. The world around him didn't matter. Not now. He knew that he was both Sugar and Spice, but he also knew that each… aspect, perhaps, was made for different things. “He is sweet, devoted. He laughs and he loves. He is like glass… lovely and… fragile.”

_ Perfect _ .

“I see.”

Drumming his fingertips on the table, Sergio watched Zacharie for a while before touching the side of his face.

“Zacharie.  Spice.  I want to show you something.  I think it will help you to make things more manageable.  Do you think you’re ready for that?”

Zacharie did not move away from the gentle hand, staring at Sergio for a beat before nodding his assent.

“If you think so.”

After all, what reason had he been given not to trust him?

Sergio smiled before drawing back and taking a phone from his pocket.

“Bring in the house.”

Zacharie had responded poorly to the usual, nondescript therapy rooms that Strex often utilized for their re-education subjects.  To that end, Sergio had their therapy sessions performed in a more personalized setting.  Zacharie’s room was tastefully appointed with plush, pastel furnishings punctuated now and then with art pieces that had darker, more angular compositions.  Before long, someone knocked at the door, though no one entered.  Rising from his seat, Sergio left the room briefly before returning with a sizable dollhouse settled atop a wheeled platform, complete with a surrounding lawn and white picket fence.  Sitting on the doorstep of the house were two dolls - one in pastel polka dots and the other in a dark, smart little suit.  Their faces were featureless, although a small pot of ink and finely tipped paint brush lay on the walkway leading up to the house before them.  As the toys were brought to the table upon which Zacharie sat, the boy couldn’t help but notice that the design of the dollhouse was strikingly familiar.

Very familiar.

From his awkward perch on the table, with his weight braced on one hand, Zacharie leaned to look; even though he couldn't feel the elation or excitement he knew he should have, he still felt his heart race, recognition in his cold blue eyes. Without a fraction of doubt, it was the house he had described to Sergio only a while ago--he couldn't be sure how long ago, but not very. His dream home. A place he could be safe. Even the gardens had the right colours of flowers, and he recognized himself in both tiny figures--though the one in the suit he currently thought of as  _ me _ , and the other,  _ him _ , when he laid eyes on each.

With trembling arms, Zacharie reached for the arm of the wheelchair, making it obvious he wanted help in getting closer to the magnificent creation crafted out of his own dreamstuff. 

“Let me give you a hand.”

Sergio helped the boy down from his perch on the table and back into his wheelchair.  He nodded to the house with a little smile.

“It’s yours.  If you open it up, everything in it should be just as you told me when you gave me your little tour.”

He waved a hand at the dolls.

“And these are based off of your self-visualizations.  The faces are yours to complete, though.  I wanted to be sure they fit with what you had in mind and the drawings you provided us with left that part blank.”

Kneeling, smiling as if he were a parent eager to give a long-desired gift to a beloved child, Sergio said, “Look inside, Zacharie.”

With an almost childlike eagerness--he felt no joy, but anticipation, certainly--Zacharie lifted his hand to the latch, opening up the front of the house to peer into the interior.

It was just as he'd always imagined.

Looking inside actually sharpened the memory to such a degree that he gasped. The walls were painted in soft pastels, each room just as he wanted it. Detailed embroidered quilts on the bed, a kitchen with beautiful stainless steel appliances and a pink marble counter, a tea setting on the coffee table in a cozy living room, gossamer curtains over windows to let in lots of sun…

“Perfect,” he whispered, picking up the figure in the sweet dress with slender fingers.

Sergio watched, mouth half-curled into an eager grin, all but salivating.  His eyes flicked instinctively back to the observation window.  He wasn’t sure if Ricardo was there or not - his mentor might watch recordings of his sessions afterward, but was not always present at the time of therapy.  But the young re-educator wished, fervently, for his mentor’s presence; for him to see this success.

_ Do you see this?  Are you watching?  Do you see me? _

“Zacharie,” he murmured, “can you show me where in the house Sugar lives?  What rooms belong to them and why?”

Absorbed in the house set under his hands, Zacharie didn't verbally respond to the question--he did, however, set Sugar down automatically in the tiny kitchen, tapping the figure’s tiny feet down in the garden and the living room on the way.

“Sugar is safe here,” he said softly, walking the little frame through the kitchen. “These are his favourite places. He loves to cook, and entertain, and look after the flowers… it's all he ever wanted. Everything was… hard, before, but he never stops imagining this place. It keeps him going… something… impossible to reach for…”

He sighed, slumping on the table, fingertips running along the rose-tinted dollhouse counter.

“What does Sugar like to cook best?  How does he entertain?  What kinds of flowers does he tend?”

Sergio leaned forward slightly, looking the little doll over.

“He’s so lovely.  I imagine he would be beautiful with flowers woven into his hair or, perhaps, holding a bouquet.”

Let him build these dreams; these castles in the clouds.  Let him create these safe spaces for himself to retreat to.  These strong, floral walls to hide behind when the world tries to hurt him.

Let him be safe.  Let them both be safe in their own ways.

My brother’s keeper.

Zacharie turned his head, resting his cheek on his arm; they were good questions, but not questions he was certain he knew the answers to. He knew that Sugar was only the remainder of himself, but he felt so far away--hiding in his secret and safe dollhouse.

He reached for the brush and the ink. His hands were surprisingly steady, despite their weakness, as he unscrewed the lid of the bottle, holding Sugar’s figurine cradled in one hand.

“He would be loveliest with a smile,” he murmured; carefully, he painted the crescent shape of it on the figure’s tiny face, followed by a soft crook for his nose and eyes with tiny flicks of eyelashes to each side.

“I want Sugar to be happy… to always be happy.”

“He will be,” Sergio assured his subject.  “Sugar will be safe and happy so long as you are strong.  I know it’s a lot to ask, Zacharie.  I know it’s a lot to ask, Spice.  But I will be here to help you.  You will be unfailing.  You will prevail.  But it will not be easy.”

The re-educator watched Zacharie as he added details to the little doll’s face; the smile, the lashes.  He felt a bittersweet tug at his heart.  What he asked of this half of Zacharie was sacrifice.  Such a burden to be placed upon such slight shoulders.

Sergio touched the boy’s chin.

“I will be there for you, though.  I won’t let you do this alone, cousin.  I will  _ always  _ be there for you.  We’re blood in ways that no one else here  _ is _ .  We share things no one else here  _ can _ .”

Zacharie--Spice--lifted his head to the touch, looking up at Sergio. The look on his face said more than enough; that he understood. That he knew the burden he was going to adopt. That he would never feel complete, or whole, or even happy. But that was the price of protecting Sugar; the price of protecting something so delicate and precious. It was the price of protecting himself from all that he had gone through. It was the only way to heal.

Hot tears stung the corners of his eyes, but he nodded. He  _ was _ strong. He was made to hold the knife. And he would not be alone.

“ _ Merci,”  _ he answered, straightening his shoulders as best as his frail figure could manage.

“What about Spice?” Sergio queried.  “Where in this house does Spice live?”

The youth turned his head back toward the dollhouse, slowly reaching for the figurine in the sharp, dark suit. His thoughts seemed narrow; single-minded. He moved the figure through the halls, along the geometric patterns of the walkways, along the stairs.

“Always just around the corner. Never in the way, but watching. He knows--I know… I know where the knives are kept. I know where the dark places are… I'll protect Sugar from there.”

He paused, stopping the figure in the bedroom--and, deftly, he moved Sugar’s figurine there, too, setting them both by the bed.

“This is mutual territory,” he ventured, voice low. There was a definite intent in his eyes, a pink tongue glancing over the swell of his lower lip. “Sugar makes himself vulnerable, here. Where he's most vulnerable, I have to be with him. I understand him here. And he almost knows me… almost.”

Nodding slowly, Sergio raised a brow and gave a thoughtful hum.

“And what about Spice’s face?  Sugar’s is so sweet; so delicate.  What does Spice look like?”

The youth took the suited figure in his hand, picking up the brush once more. There was no hesitation--the face he painted this time was solemn and serious, with a flat mouth and eyes pronounced by lines underneath. A cold, stony stare illustrated in black ink. He set the figure back down, guarding the front door.

He said nothing, folding his arms on the table and pillowing his cheek against them, as sombre as the doll.

“Good.”

Looking to his subject, Sergio smiled.  Reaching over to give Zacharie’s hand a squeeze, he spoke in a low, approving tone.  

“You’ve done well today, Zach.  I’m proud of you.  I know this is very challenging, but I have every confidence you’re going to see this through successfully.  I’ll leave the dollhouse and the dolls with you.  If there’s anything you want to do or anything you feel you want to express with them, let me know.”

Rising to his feet, Sergio gestured to the door.

“I’m heading out now, but all you need do is say the word, and I’ll be back.  I’m here for you, Zach.  Never forget that.”

Zacharie didn't move; only his eyes followed Sergio. Still, he seemed to want to stay close to the dollhouse, his fingertips curling against the tiny picket fence.

He nodded, and closed his eyes--a small, hunched frame in the middle of a room that seemed larger than it need be, in a world too harsh and dark, only Sergio’s caring hand keeping it from snapping its jaws down and swallowing the frail thing whole.

Sergio stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him and exhaling at length as the pneumatic lock hissed closed.

This was good.  This was progress.

Ricardo emerged from the quiet corners over the walls, having watched Sergio's progress with great interest. He hardly gave him input for the sake of keeping his biased opinions to himself. Sergio was pushed to the right path, it was only a matter of how the journey went. With quiet steps and soft breath, Ricardo made his presence known.

"Trust has quite a value," he said, "and you've brought him to trust you in rather intimate ways. These tokens you offer..." Sergio’s mentor didn't grin, but his eyes did brighten with mischief, "An excellent way to build his character while building boundaries."

The man rubbed his chin.

"For such a task as you've been given, you're doing a remarkable job Sergio. But don't get cocky because you won a few battles." Ricardo gave Sergio a stern look. "Once this bridge is built, we have to see how well it handles the pressure. I know you won't disappoint. Thorough and never sloppy."

Sergio’s heart gave a little leap as Ricardo made his presence known.  Eyes bright with the pleasure of his mentor’s approval, the re-educator grinned.

“Don’t worry.  Zacharie is making exemplary progress.  I’ll be applying a little...pressure in the next few sessions.  For now…”

Sergio took his phone from his pocket, opening up a small display that showed him the interior of the room where Zacharie was absorbed in the dollhouse.

  
“...Everything is going as planned.”

**Author's Note:**

> Ricardo Vega belongs to freedomconvicted and can be seen portrayed at strexcorpsguardian.tumblr.com. Portions containing Ricardo in this fic were written by his creator  
> Zacharie DuBois was inspired by rosylocks aka leilavino.tumblr.com, was developed by, and can be seen portrayed by zenami at strawberriesandstrex.tumblr.com  
> Sergio Vega belongs to eruditexperimenter and can be seen portrayed at eruditexperimenter.tumblr.com


End file.
